Moving Water

There is something about moving water. I am not above fishing a lake, and have long coveted access to a private pond and its fat, under-fished bass. But it has always been moving water that calls to me and beckons me to its shore.

While a lake or pond can be beautiful there is something analogous about moving water that appeals to me. As peaceful and picturesque as an impoundment of water can be it is simply not going anywhere. Sure there are currents and water that may eventually spill over a dam but for the most part the water is contained and controlled.

I don’t want my life to be contained and controlled. My spirit is too restless. My ability to sit still too limited. It doesn’t mean there is no need for boundaries and limits for even rivers have a bank and a shoreline to guide them. But banks and shoreline do not fully contain and control the river; they merely offer guidance as to the direction it should go. The river is moving and flowing and never the same, sometimes fast and furious, other times gentle and peaceful, but always flowing. Always moving.

There is a therapeutic nature to moving water that is not matched by the contained waters of an impoundment. I have a good life and have suffered no major heartaches or setbacks. But life itself is seldom easy even if it is good. When going to the water to fish I am seeking more than the excitement of a tug on my line. When walking the shores of moving water and stepping into its current my spirit is washed and cleansed: if only figuratively. If you allow it, the cool rushing water will wash over you and as it flows on downstream take with it just a little of the stress of life. The waters are not an elixir. They do not heal, but yet they are healing. They speak no words of counsel or comfort, but the sounds of moving water calm and soothe the mind and soul. One seldom leaves flowing water the same as when they entered.

There are times when I wade in the water and feel one with the river as it rushes past me and seemingly through me. Sometimes my trip to the river is in a canoe floating with its current, allowing it to take me for a ride. My favorite places to camp are along the banks of a river making its way over rocks and boulders with the sweet and constant sound of rapids. You awake to same sounds of the river but know that the water that rushed over the rocks as night fell is miles away, replaced by new water on the same journey. Still other times I simply walk the shore and listen.

Just as each hour is replaced by the next, moving waters are always flowing. From the large rivers of the Bay to small wooded creeks and streams moving water has always been a part of my life. In ways difficult to explain it has shaped my life. As long as they continue to flow moving waters will continue to call to me. And as long as life flows in me I will continue to return to them, seeking solace in their movement.

There is something about moving water.

Copyright Rick Ridpath 2010

Just One Fish

Fly-fishing is a sport of numbers. Fly rods have a length and a weight. Lines and leaders have a weight and size. Flies have a number based on their hook. Fish are measured and weighed. But at the end of the day there is one number that trumps them all… the number of fish. When you arrive home from a fishing trip no one asks what size leader you used or if you fished your 3 or 5 weight rod. They want to know how many fish you caught. That is the question you either can’t wait to hear or dread answering. After a successful day I’m excited to share my news. When the day was fruitless there is the hollow sounding, “No, but I had a good time anyway. It was real pretty.”

And yet in that world of numbers everything is relative. Just as seasons and conditions change so do the value of numbers. The reason the same number cannot be used repeatedly to define the success of a trip is the value of that number is relative to the seasons and conditions themselves. A number that represented a long and disappointing outing can just as easily represent success and fulfillment.

Of all the numbers in fly-fishing it is the number one that can have the most contrast in its value. Two fishing trips in particular come to mind when I think of the different values of one. Spring fly-fishing in Shenandoah National Park is all about Brook Trout. In the spring these native “Brookies” are supposedly an easy catch as the aggressive little trout attack dry flies up and down the mountain streams. This has never been the case for me. On a trip to the Rose River in Virginia last spring that fact was hammered home. My fishing buddies Chuck and Ray were tearing them up, pulling multiple trout out of each hole. I couldn’t catch those Brookies if my life depended on it. Whether it was poor casting or spooking the fish is unclear. What was clear was that the rugged Rose River and its skittish Brook Trout were kicking my butt. In the late afternoon I finally managed one Brookie on a nymph. One. One lousy Brook Trout all day. Ray and Chuck probably had 30 or more between them. I had one. I was dejected and defeated. And the number said it all.

On the drive home my spirits settled and I recalled another time of catching just one. It was late January of that same year. We had driven up into the mountains to fish the North River in what had already been a very hard winter. There was still a great deal of snow in the park. The truck’s undercarriage scraped over the crunchy snow covering the unplowed gravel road leading to the river. We parked and suited up in our warm weather gear, waders, gloves, and hats and hiked into the snow-covered woods for some winter fly-fishing. Ever sense childhood I had marveled at pictures of fishermen standing in a river surrounded by snow and triumphantly holding a fly rod in one hand and a trout in the other. I wanted to be that guy. I wanted to be a guy who could catch fish on a mountain stream in the dead of winter. It didn’t get much more dead of winter than this.

The challenge of the season was great and the North River gives no favors. I had fished the North before and had been shut out. The river presented its same obstacles – low water, few obvious runs and pools, gin clear. And this time add in snowmelt and a hard, cold winter. We fished our way down the river. It could not have been more beautiful. Several pictures of the incredible winter scenery were taken but I had one picture in mind. A fish caught in this winter wilderness. By lunch Chuck had caught two. Our friend Dale had fished very slowly but came up empty. I hadn’t even had a bite.

After lunch we worked our way down to a bend in the river with a nice pool and a fat log. Several nice trout sheltered under that log. Chuck and Dale took a few casts and moved on down stream. My target had been found and with it a determination to fish that hole as long as it took. Nymph after nymph were cast along the log. The trout would watch the offering drift by then causally swim back to safety. Other flies were cast with the same response. Finally after many attempts a trout took the fly. The hook was set and the fish was on! The fight brought the trout within one foot of my net when, at the last second, it freed itself. A desperate lunge with the net was fruitless and the fish escaped back to the log. “Still counts,” I thought to myself. “No, it doesn’t,” a voice in my head quickly shot back.

Any guide would have told me to give up on the hole and come back later. I couldn’t. I kept fishing. I had to catch one. Several flies and repeated refusals later and the time had come to accept defeat. Chuck and Dale had long ago passed me on their way back up the river. The winter afternoon was starting to fade and darkness was not far behind. At the top of the pool I took one last cast. Whether it was the different angle or the grace of God, I don’t know, but a nice Rainbow Trout came out from the log and took the fly. I set the hook and the fight was on. The trout darted back and forth across the pool and had to be played just right to prevent an escape to the shadows and safety. As the fish tired I started to work my way closer to the shore only to trip over a submerged rock. The fight suddenly was not only to land the fish but also to keep from falling in at the same time. I danced back and forth desperately trying to find my footing and not lose the fish. With rod held high I steadied myself, netted the trout, and made it to shore. “Woooo Hoooo!!!” echoed through the canyon and was answered in return from my friends who could tell what had happened. The trout was laid out in the snow along side my fly rod to be captured in photograph before being returned to the water. I had done it! I had caught a trout in the snowy woods of a deep winter river. I was that guy. I didn’t catch another fish that day. I didn’t even have another strike. It didn’t matter. That one fish was more than enough for me.

Just one fish. On the Rose River in early spring just one fish was all I could claim and were words of dejection and disappointment. On the North River in the dead of winter just one fish was all I needed to leave filled with adrenaline, pride, and satisfaction. Fly-fishing is a sport of numbers. “Just one fish” can mean very different things. In the end though, just one fish is better than no fish at all.

Copyright Rick Ridpath 2010

Goin' to Jackson - Meadow Lane on the Jackson River

Winter Fly-Fishing - North River, VA

It was tough fishing but beautiful scenery. And we managed a few Rainbows.

Quote of the day: Rick: Two things put a spring in your step like nothing else... One is getting laid and the other catching a fish.

Chuck: Well catching a fish is the only chance you've got out here so don't get any ideas!

The Beauty of it All

I have wanted to write this story for almost two months now. It has been the apprehension that my words will fail to do justice to the scenes I found myself in that has kept me from writing.But the desire to relive the experience in my mind has grown stronger than my apprehension so I will try to put in words the beauty I have seen.

There are moments in fishing, and I believe particularly in fly-fishing, when the fish play the supporting role as the setting itself takes center stage. It was late August on the Jackson River.I had come to fly-fish a river I had heard and read about many times, a river described as a classic western trout stream tucked into the mountains of Virginia. I came dreaming of the Jackson’s trout having no idea it was the Jackson itself that would become dreamlike.

The sky was powder blue and the sun bright on the water creating long streaks of shimmering light reflecting back to their source. A light breeze blew as lofty white clouds moved steadily across sky. The river was wide and flowed with the determination of a force on a journey. It would not be rushed but neither would it ease its flow to accommodate those who would step from the shore to enter its realm. The grasses and trees that lined the bank were thick and healthy with rich hues of dark and light green. The mountains reached above the tree line in the distance looking down on the scene with approval. Their rounded off peaks stood like sentries keeping guard both upstream and down. The river was king.

For long casts and small flies the Jackson would yield its bounty. Rainbow trout painted with nature’s silver, brown, pink, and purple were brought to net, brought to hand, photographed and returned to the water. Late afternoon slid seamlessly into evening. The sun set behind the mountains and the clouds turned a rose like pink as if to remind the trout that they too have colors of a rainbow. As daylight faded the half-light of dusk fell over the land and the once lofty clouds descended upon the river in a mystical mix of fog and mist. And the river rolled on.

As the mist and fog floated around me I was captivated by the beauty of it all. My line was in the water but I wasn’t catching fish. I didn’t need to catch fish. It was no longer about the fishing. It was bigger than the fishing. It was bigger than the fish. It was about the fog, the mist, the half-light fading to darkness. It was about the stillness, the river flowing through it all, flowing through me, and God’s spirit all around, thick as the fog, strong as the river, filling my heart, filling my soul.

copyright 2009 Rick Ridpath

Fishing the Jackson

Salvation on Mossy Creek

This is actually the first fishing story I wrote. It was for a writing contest I didn't win. Since I didn't win the prize or publication I figured this was the right place to share the story. Thanks for reading. rick

I was as new to fly fishing as a Mayfly dun drying his wings in the sun. Besides a handful of bream and a few juvenile Smallmouth my fly fishing experience was limited to a couple of trips to the mountain streams of Virginia. I had fished the Rapidan and Rose Rivers, and by the grace of God and a Parachute Adams, managed to hook two native Brook Trout on each river. Catching a couple of natives on a dry fly in Shenandoah National Park can fill a novice with confidence that defies the truth about the catch – stumbling into a pool and making a clumsy cast on a leader too big for dries made it just short of a miracle the skittish Brook Trout had been caught at all.

But, the reality of a situation is often not seen until much later. All I knew was that I’d caught native trout on a dry fly… twice! I was a fly fisherman. More than that, I was a trout fly fisherman. I had done it, and I could do it again. My pride, my confidence, was full. I was just waiting for that next trip.

Later that summer the next trip came. My good friend and fishing buddy, Chuck, invited me to fly fish for trout at a place called Mossy Creek. I jumped at the chance; after-all I was a trout fisherman now. Mossy Creek is one of Virginia’s most famous trout streams. A spring-fed creek, it runs not over mountain boulders and rocks but through rolling valleys and meadows of private farm land. It’s a special regulation stream – no live bait, no wading, fly fishing only, catch and release. It is known for its trophy Brown and Rainbow Trout, and for being deceptively difficult. When I told my more experienced fly fishing neighbor about my plans he simply shook his head and sighed, “Mmm… The Mossy is tough.” No problem, I can do it. I’m a trout fisherman. So I thought.

We arrived at the Mossy early. It was a beautiful August morning. The sun was bright, the day full of potential. Gearing up, we could hear the bloop-bloop of trout steadily feeding on the morning Trico hatch. My heart raced as we crossed the bridge to the public side of the creek. This is why I came, to catch trout. There they were, just steps from the parking lot eagerly rising to a hatch my friend told me would happen. I was ready.

Stepping off the road and onto the trampled grass of the farm, over the electric fencing that kept the cows out of the creek, we approached the water. I was fishing a small Trico dry fly on a 9 foot, 4X leader with a 5X tippet. We quietly walked to the bank and made our first cast just steps from the bridge. Small white flies were hatching and gently floating away. Trout steadily sipped them off the surface as they emerged to take flight. The water low and clear, I could see the fish in their feeding stations darting to the emerging flies every few seconds. I’m using the right leader, the right fly; I can see the trout rising. I can do this. Heart racing I make several casts. “Nice cast. Nice drift,” my friend Chuck tells me. I’m doing this right. Any cast now. My fly drifts right between two trout. One leaves his station and rushes toward my fly. He rises, inspects it carefully, then returns to his station. I make more casts. I drift the fly directly over a trout, watch in excitement as he rises, only to take an emerging fly right next to my offering. I switch to a small Parachute Adams and make several more casts. Still nothing. A Blue Wing Olive - nothing. The hatch faded as the August sun turned morning to midday. Hours had been spent fishing rising trout and not a one was landed. We decided to stop for lunch. I wasn’t defeated, but I had started to doubt.

After lunch, we crossed the bridge again and fished our way up the creek. Each of us tied on a Dave’s Hopper for the afternoon terrestrials. Grasshoppers were all over the place. This had to work. Within minutes Chuck landed a Brown Trout. His skunk was off. Mine was just starting to stink.

Looking at Mossy Creek, it’s easy to think casting shouldn’t be a challenge since there are no trees along much of the bank. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. That hot afternoon I found every way possible to hang up my fly. I snagged the mossy grass in the middle of the creek. The 5x tippet broke off and the hopper was lost. Too long of a back cast and the three feet tall weeds behind me grabbed the line and tangled my fly. The one stick in a wide-open stretch was somehow hooked, stranding the fly. The no wading rule made flies snagged in the middle of the creek out of reach and lost. An old fence post appeared from nowhere to grab my back cast and knock it down along with the rest of my confidence. I set down my rod, took off my vest, and sat on the ground leaning against the fence post. Just about every fly in my box had been tried and the closest I had come to landing a fish was a roll at my hopper that couldn’t be hooked. I was hot, tired, and dejected. I guess I was wrong. I can’t do this. I guess I need to fly fish for bass. Trout are hard and far away. It turns out I’m no trout fisherman. Meanwhile I hear the excited shout of, “Fish on!” as my friend lands his sixth trout.

There are two stretches to the public section of the Mossy, an upper and lower section. Having had enough of the upper section I headed back to the truck alone. Chuck approached with the light step of someone who has caught multiple fish. Afternoon was winding on but he wanted to fish that lower section before we left. We drove to the next bridge crossing and dropped down. I tied on another hopper figuring I had nothing to lose… I couldn’t catch any less fish. The lower section of the Mossy is known for having bigger trout hiding elusively in small pools and grassy runs. The challenge is that the banks are steep with lots of brush. Promising looking spaces often offer no way to actually reach the water. The no wading rule looms large over this stretch. We walked and fished. The best sections of water are the hardest to reach. Several casts and nothing for either of us. I can’t do this. I’m done. I want to go home. The Mossy had won.

Walking to catch up with Chuck, I passed a nice little stretch that seemed to call out to me. It was a nice brush-covered, washed-out bank with a small clearing to drop to the water’s edge just in case. I dropped the hopper over the brush into the run. As if in slow motion, a large silver head thrust out of the water, hammered the hopper and smacked the water with its tail as it raced back into the pool. In shock and excitement I raised the rod as the slack turned to tension and the tip bent. The trout made a run down stream, the reel singing that sweet song of line being stripped off by a runaway fish. My heart raced with excitement and fear. I’ve got a fish on! A nice one! I can’t lose this fish!

Chuck heard the splashes of the trout trying to throw the hopper and rushed over with his net. “Let him run. Strip in, strip in. Keep him out of that brush. You can do it. Keep the tension on the line.” The trout made a series of runs up and down the narrow stream. We dropped down the small clearing I had eyed and stood on the water’s edge. The trout was wearing out and I carefully pulled him close to the shore, still fearing a last burst that could set him free. Chuck reached out and I guided the trout safely into the net. Grabbing the net, I rushed up the bank letting out a thunderous “Whoo hooo!!!” It was a beautiful Rainbow Trout. I quickly measured it – 14 inches. Far from a trophy, but a giant to me. I knelt on the ground and held the fish with my fly rod across my lap. Chuck quickly took some pictures. Thank you Lord. I took another long look at the trout and carefully set him back in the creek thanking him quietly for letting me catch him. He disappeared into the same hole from which he had so dramatically appeared.

I climbed up the bank a new man. Chuck patted me on the back as I picked up my rod. The excitement turned to relief. Exhaustion overtaken by adrenaline. As a trout fisherman I had been born again. All of the dejection, doubt, and despair of that long day had been washed away in one moment of hooking, fighting, and landing that Rainbow. The rest of the words of my neighbor came to mind, “The Mossy is tough. If you catch one fish on the Mossy you’ve had a good day.” I had caught one fish. It was a great fish… and it was a great day. I was still a fly fisherman. I was still a trout fly fisherman. In that one fish my trout fishing career had been saved. I had done it. I would do it again. Salvation on Mossy Creek.

copyright 2009 rick ridpath